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He laces his fingers through mine and tugs me away from the fireplace wall. “You wanna get outta here?”
“Yes,” I groan. “More than anything.”
He takes a step toward the French doors that lead into the kitchen, but I pull him in the opposite direction, away from the guests and around the side of the house where there’s a gate leading to the street. As he reaches up to unlatch the gate, he stops to give me a peck on the lips.
His mouth hovers against mine and with a hot breath, he whispers. “By the way. I am happy to see you.”
GAH!
After we sneak out, we both agree the kosher appetizers hardly made a dent in our appetite, so we end up at a burger house. I suggest the drive-through, but Ignacio is completely against eating in his car. Surprisingly, we don’t turn that many heads in our costumes when we walk inside. I’m not ready to take off my space buns just yet—gotta get good mileage out of them, after all.
We’re in the middle of the busy fast-food restaurant, noshing on the cheesiest, greasiest burgers in LA and are sharing a mountain of french fries. Ignacio shoves fries in his mouth so fast, I have to slap his hand away so he doesn’t get into my half.
“Look at you,” I say, somewhat astounded. “What happened to the health food nut I’ve come to know and love?”
I did not mean to say love. It’s an expression. That’s all.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he says. “Every chef has a guilty pleasure. For Wolfgang Puck it’s ice cream. Alton Brown? Cheetos.”
“No!”
“It’s true. A chef can create beautiful culinary masterpieces, but sometimes we just want something naughty.”
I feel a blush bloom in my cheeks. I still have that mind-bending kiss on the brain and he has to go and say things like that. Doesn’t everybody want something naughty from time to time? Okay—maybe I live off more naughty foods than healthy. Sue me.
“My guilty pleasure is a greasy burger and fries,” he says, scooping up another fry. “And lots of ketchup.”
“I feel like you just described my entire diet,” I say.
His eyes pour over my face as I take a sip of my chocolate shake. I reach the point where I’m mostly sucking air through the straw and it’s making that sad slurping noise. I frown at my cup.
“Do you want another one?” he offers.
Yes, I do, but I’m not going to pig out that much.
“If you get one for yourself, I’ll take a few sips,” I say.
He squints at me because, of course, I know he doesn’t consume sugar.
“How about I get one for myself and you can have as much as you want?” he says.
In other words, another one just for me.
“Maybe on the way out,” I say. “For now, I’ll steal some of your water.”
It’s so strange to be on this familiar plane with him—sharing a beverage out of the same cup like we’re a real couple. I’ve never sipped out of the same cup as Aaron or any of my previous boyfriends. This arrangement with Ignacio is supposed to be fake, and yet the lines keep blurring more and more. I guzzle some of his water and he’s not even grossed out.
How can someone get grossed out about drinking from the same cup after that kiss?
That kiss! Wowza.
“Thanks for sticking up for me at the party,” I say. “I need to take you everywhere to up my snark game.”
“Happy to be of service.”
He smiles, but it quickly fades, like something just made him a little sad. His eyes seem sort of droopy, and all I can think about is how I want to kiss the smile right back onto his face.
“We make a good team, don’t we?” I say. “I’d make all your ex-girlfriends jealous and steal things from their houses if I could.”
